Chasing Rainbows
by lilidelafield
Summary: This story runs in parallel with The I Have Your Back Affair. Exclusively from Illya's point of view. When Illya is ordered to rescue an American UNCLE agent from a Thrush satrap in the middle of a Russian Winter, he knows he has a difficult and dangerous job on his hands and is forced to make some very difficult choices. Can the American agent, Napoleon Solo ever forgive him?
Chasing Rainbows runs parallel to The I Have Your Back Affair. Many of the events cross over. Although reading the earlier story may prove insightful, it is not necessary.

I do own own these characters. I just wish that I did.

CHASING RANBOWS

April Dancer found her friend Illya in Central Park, sitting on a bench beside the lake. He was looking even more morose and introverted than usual. He was worried about his partner of course, but she suspected there might be more to it than just worrying about Napoleon. She sat beside him and handed him the paper cup of tea she held in her left hand.

"This is for you."

"Thank you."

Illya took the cup and started to sip.

"So Napoleon is going to be all right after all?"

"Yes, it turns out he is suffering from mild hyperthermia and slight concussion."

"That is a relief. I suppose they've kicked you out, have they?"

Illya nodded. He had been in medical for thirty-six straight hours and refused to leave. The doctors had threatened to put him in bed himself if he didn't take himself outside for fresh air and food before returning no sooner than two hours later. He told this to April and she smiled.

"How long did you argue for?"

"Half an hour until Mr. Waverly came down and he made it an official order."

"Well it's a nice day for it… Um, Illya, there is something I wanted to ask you about… I asked Napoleon the other day to tell me the story of how you and he first met, but he refused. He said he wanted to tell me but that it was your story. What did he mean by that?"

Illya looked at her. She could see sadness in his eyes.

"Is it that hard?"

"Not in the way you mean, April. I suppose Napoleon said that in order to save me from any embarrassment or awkwardness. Our first meeting was not quite what you would normally expect."

"Embarrassment? How do you mean? I always assumed you met in the normal way, in Mr. Waverly's room."

"When we were made partners we did… well, he came to meet me at the airport actually…but the first time we actually met was five weeks earlier….in a THRUSH satrap in the middle of Ukraine."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Illya looked dubious, but April looked so imploring, that he gave a crooked half-smile.

"All right…"

Illya Nikovitch Kuryakin awakened with a start, cold sweat on his face. The same nightmare that he had had for the last three nights now. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the clock. Four thirty in the morning. He would be getting up in an hour anyway and fighting for space in the bathroom. He could get up now and get the bathroom first and take his time. It would make a change rather than have three other people hammering on the door shouting to him to hurry up. He rolled off his mattress and landed on his knees on the floor, rubbing his eyes and yawning widely. He found that there was no hot water so he had to make do with washing himself in cold, and he re-emerged much more quickly than he had intended. He dressed swiftly in the dark, unwilling to awaken his flat-mates, wrapped himself in his black greatcoat and ushanka and plunged outside into the cold.

The snow was piled up on the verges but the paths and roads had been well scraped clear, and walking to work was no great hazard. Just one block away, Kuryakin turned into a Tailor's shop named Del Floria's. He wondered idly who Del Floria might be. There was no one here of that name at any rate. Oleg Belikov nodded from behind the steam press.

"Early today Mr. Kuryakin."

Kuryakin gave him a nod.

"Good morning Oleg."

He stepped through the curtain and into the fitting room. Behind him he heard the hiss of the steam press, and he smiled and opened the door into headquarters.

Anna Chenkov greeted him genially and handed him his badge, emblazoned with the number three. He gave her a polite nod and continued through the inner door almost without stopping. He was halfway down to the commissary to get himself a mug of tea when he heard a call from behind.

"Mr. Kuryakin. Glad you're here early."

Kuryakin stopped and turned. It was the chief, Wilhelm Tarasov.

"Good morning, sir."

"Is it morning, or still the middle of the night? I don't know. `Been here round the clock now. Some trouble has erupted in Siberia, three-way tag between the government, THRUSH and some locals who appear to have formed their own militia. I've had to send a number of section three men under the command of Molovitski and Polokofiev, to try and broker some kind of arrangement. They are likely to be gone for some time so the role of Chief Enforcement Agent falls upon you for the time being."

"Very well sir. Has there been any action on the THRUSH channels overnight sir, aside from the trouble in Siberia I mean?"

"Nothing for us to jump at for now, but we have had a call from the International Tracking Station. They were contacted last night by the Number One, Section One, in New York, about one of their section two agents who stowed away on a THRUSH plane heading in our direction. A certain Napoleon Solo. I.T tracked the plane and tell us it came down in the middle of the open countryside some distance away."

Kuryakin frowned.

"An airplane put down in open countryside in March with snowdrifts in places likely up to ten or fifteen feet deep?"

Tarasov grinned.

"Should be easy enough to find and track, my friend. You need to find this plane. Tracking can give you their last coordinates, then find this THRUSH base, which won't be far from the landing site; rescue this Napoleon Solo and destroy the THRUSH base."

Kuryakin nodded ruefully.

"So just another typical day at the office then, sir?"

Kuryakin had to forgo the tea and start immediately to make arrangements. If an UNCLE agent was even now in the hands of THRUSH, then it was a matter of priority to rescue him as quickly as humanly possible. He had heard of Napoleon Solo of course. Cutter at Survival School had been constantly spouting Solo's accomplishments and abilities as the ultimate goal. Kuryakin had been amused at Cutter's obsession with Solo's brilliance, and determined to do all he could to smash the man's record into pieces. Not in any way to denigrate Solo, but to pop Cutter's irritating bubble.

To enter a well-protected THRUSH compound in the middle of Soviet territory would be nearly impossible. As Kuryakin thought about it, one possibility came to mind. The only way that had a chance of working without loss of life would be to do it quite openly. If he disguised himself as an officer from THRUSH Central, acted with enough conviction, arrogance and enthusiasm for torture, the minions would happily believe in him. The higher the rank, the more likely they would be to be suspicious of him. No way would any THRUSH officer come traipsing in through the snow. He would come in some kind of chopper, or airplane. He would not come in alone, either. He would have minions of his own to accompany him.

He hurried to organize the section two and three agents he would need to accompany him as back up, to requisition the supplies he would need take along, and he had to be insistent on speed. Speed was crucial. There was a man out there possibly suffering badly. Within the hour, he had section two agent Aminov installed with six agents from section three loaded into the back of a specially fitted out truck, heading to the nearest point possible by road to the coordinates from tracking. Meanwhile, Aminov's partner, Japanese agent Oshiro, and himself travelled by helicopter, accompanied by two more section three men, both dressed as THRUSH minions. Whilst his companion piloted the craft, Kuryakin carefully applied his disguise. He now wore an untidy light brown wig, securely fastened in place, and a goatee beard which came with its own specially designed glue. He hated the feel of the thing, but it certainly transformed his appearance considerably. They made it to the coordinates International Tracking had given them and had no trouble spotting the THRUSH plane. A large area had been cleared in the middle of a thick forest, large enough to place a good sized runway. The entire area had been cleared of snow, somehow, the runway cut straight and flat through all the thick brush that remained. The plane was easy to spot from the air, but no one passing by on the road would ever guess that it was there. Kuryakin picked up the radio receiver.

"Kuryakin to Aminov. Come in."

"Aminov here. You've found them sir?"

"A large forest to your right as you approach the breast of the hill. Right in the centre of the forest is a large clearing with a perfect runway, complete with airplane. The snow has been cleared along with the trees, but there are still plenty of brushwood and bushes around, so our plan B should work if we need it. Set your men around undercover and keep in touch with them all. Make sure they know when and if to move out. I will leave Oshiro with the chopper. I am going into radio silence now, so any instructions I need to give will be through him. Understood?"

"Understood sir."

"Keep out of sight and keep your eyes open. Kuryakin out."

As Kuryakin replaced the radio receiver, Oshiro set the chopper hovering briefly over the runway, before starting a slow descent.

"There's no sign of any building around here sir, how will you find it."

"I won't have to. I will be escorted down in person."

"You will? Will they escort you out again once you have rescued the New York Agent?"

Kuryakin gave him a fleeting glance.

"I've known all along there would be only one way to pull off this rescue, and it is risky. That is why I have brought your partner and his men along. They have orders to set high explosives all around the perimeter of this airfield. You are to wait by the chopper. I will take these two men down with me. When I am ready, I will send them back to you for the straight-jacket trolley we brought along. That will be your cue to get this bird warmed up again ready for take-off. Aminov and his men should be back at the truck by then and on their way to our rendezvous. You are not to come down there in search of me, even if it seems I am taking too long. If I do not appear within our decided time frame, you will set plan B into operation and get yourselves clear."

The Japanese agent nodded. This plan seemed to him foolhardy in the extreme, and only a very brave man would even dream of attempting it, but on the other hand, he could not think of any alternative plan either. It was Kuryakin's responsibility as acting CEA to organize this rescue, and Oshiro was only glad that the task had not fallen to him.

He landed the chopper expertly to one side of the landing field, and turned off the motors. He removed his goggles and his gloves, but remained seated, as ordered. The two section three agents in the back climbed out and stood for all the world like a true pair of THRUSH agents, side by side, arms folded, every muscle gleaming in the pale light. Kuryakin alighted from the cab and strode arrogantly across the clearing, removing his gloves one finger at a time. The two section three men following at a respectful distance.

As he had suspected, within a minute, there was a shout from somewhere to the left, and three figures were walking towards them from the cover of the trees.

"Come!" Kuryakin barked at his two men in guttural German. The two men, picked in part for their knowledge of the German language, glanced at one another, repressing their urge to smile. The Guv was living up to his reputation as usual. A simple disguise, a different language and accent, and an intimidating and arrogant expression on his face… he looked nothing like the Illya they knew. He looked… terrifying.

Kuryakin strode over to the newcomers and narrowing his eyes, he sneered at them, his voice low and chilly.

"This is how you treat me is it? You leave me standing in this god-forsaken place waiting? You should have been here waiting for me."

"Sorry sir, but we were not expecting any visitors. Who…who are you, sir? Are you from Central?"

Kuryakin's eyes blazed.

"` _Who are you, sir?_ '" he repeated in a mocking tone. "I _am_ THRUSH! I am Colonel Dieter Furst, from THRUSH Central. I am here to inspect your prisoner. You will lead the way. Now!"

The men jumped at the suddenly raised voice, and nodded and bobbed obediently.

"Sir! This way sir!"

Kuryakin glanced at his two men.

"Come."

They followed obediently.

Into the tree-line, they saw a large brick-built bunker. Inside, the steps went down into the bowels of the earth, lights embedded into the roof at intervals made the corridors almost as bright as daylight.

Once they were down there, it became clear to Kuryakin where the main hub of this place was; at least, in which direction he would find it. Without waiting for the THRUSHites to lead him, he glanced quickly in both directions and set off at a brisk pace.

"Come along, come along. No dawdling there, we have work to do!" The two THRUSHites stared at the two disguised UNCLE men with raised eyebrows.

"Is he always this eager?"

"Always…and he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

The four men hurried down the corridor after Kuryakin.

Kuryakin reached what he quickly surmised to be the communications hub, and he entered, bursting through the doors as though he owned them.

"Damned cold weather you have here. This time of year any half civilized country would be seeing the end of cold and snow like this. All right now, where is he?"

The men in the room stopped what they were doing and stared at this newcomer. A tall, thin man with a nose like a beak and a large bald patch on his head stared at Kuryakin, holding his spectacles up to his nose.

"Who are you?"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes.

"If I get that question levelled at me one more time I am going to order that this bunker be destroyed with every single one of you still here." He replied in a thick German accent. "Now, for the last time I am Colonel Dieter Furst, second in command of Resource at THRUSH Central. Our information tells me that you have managed to obtain a very valuable resource right here. UNCLE men are notoriously difficult to keep hold of, even if you think you have them well secured. I will investigate this person, and if he is of interest to us at Central, I will be removing him from here and taking him with me."

"Sorry Colonel, but as you say, UNCLE prisoners are valuable, and you could be an UNCLE agent in disguise for all we know. None of us has met any of the officers from Central before. We have only ever spoken to you over the communicators. We need to check."

"Very well, go, make your call to Central, but be quick about it. We all have things to do and places we would rather be than stuck down here in this flea-pit!"

With that, he turned his back on the man and stood ram-rod still and straight in the middle of the room, tapping his foot impatiently and staring balefully at the young man manning the communications array. The beak-nosed man looked taken aback and glanced at the communications officer. The latter had become so nervous he was fumbling over the buttons and switches.

"Leave it for now. We'll call and do the check up later." He turned to Kuryakin.

"Very well sir, I will take you to the prison wing. Two of our men have been entertaining our guest. They're eating right now, but I will send them down right away."

Kuryakin gave a tight nod and followed Beak-nose out of the door and down the corridor, back the way they had come and down a side corridor. As he passed them, Kuryakin gestured silently to his men to accompany him, and the procession made swift progress.

They reached the end of the second corridor, where Beak-nose unlocked a big heavy iron door. The other side of it they found two THRUSH minions, leering.

"This is the Colonel from Central, come to view our prisoner."

The larger of the two men frowned.

"I didn't know Central were sending anyone, sir; and with the communications array so patchy sir, it might be a while before we are able to check on it."

Beak-nose leaned in confidentially.

"I checked him. You can tell a lot about a man by his body language. I said we were going to check him out then and there and he said `Go ahead', and just stood there in the middle of the room, waiting. If he were not genuine, he would have tried to talk us out of it wouldn't he?"

The large man thought he could detect a flaw in the reasoning.

"Well, if it was a ploy he used sir, it might have been a risk, but it certainly worked, didn't it?"

"Oh for pity's sake!" exploded Kuryakin, in a fury. He reached into his inner pocket and brought out a device with which they were all familiar. A THRUSH communicator. He pushed it into Beak-nose's hand.

"Use that, call them now, but waste no time. I am losing my patience with all of you!"

Beak-nose switched it on and spoke into it, almost apologetically. He made his request, and after a second try the receiver crackled into life and he heard a female voice; in reality, it was Wilhelm Tarasov's personal secretary whom had been sitting for hours waiting for this call to come through on the special frequency Kuryakin had built into the two machines they had captured.

"Thrush Central… Yes, Colonel Dieter Furst left us as soon as he learned you had captured an American UNCLE agent… there is one man they are looking for in particular and Colonel Furst has good reason to be the one to transfer him to Central if he turns out to be the man he is after… what does he look like? Colonel Furst is fairly young looking, although he is older than he looks, he has light brown hair, a goatee beard and piercing blue eyes…he will have arrived with some of his men in a helicopter… Yes, you are welcome. Goodbye."

Beak-nose turned shame-facedly to his visitor and held out a hand.

"Forgive me for being suspicious and thank you for your patience, Colonel. UNCLE are getting so sneaky these days; we have learned to be suspicious of anything out of the ordinary."

Kuryakin shook his hand.

"That is quite all right. Now if you please?"

Beak-nose nodded at the two jailors.

"Take him to the prisoner, give him every facility he wants. Enjoy your stay with us Colonel."

"Thank you. Hopefully I will not need to be here for long. This place is far too cold for my blood."

Kuryakin followed the two THRUSH men into the cell.

He saw a handsome, dark haired young man strapped to a torture table, raised high off the ground. The head was tilting slightly downhill. The man was conscious, and watching them intently. Kuryakin could see pain in the depths of the man's eyes, but he was not betraying any sign of it to his captors. Blood ran freely over the prisoner's feet, but his shoes were on his feet, so it was impossible to see what damage these thugs had done. He twisted his face to carry an expression compounding of arrogance and contempt, a very dangerous glint in his eye.

"This is the one causing you trouble is it? I know this man." Illya growled in his thick German accent.

His companions seemed surprised,

"You know him sir?"

"His face is well known at THRUSH Central. This is the great Napoleon Solo of UNCLE… They have been trying to get their hands on this one for a while. My opinion of you fools here in Russia has increased."

Illya recognized this prisoner from the photograph he had seen back at headquarters, this was definitely Napoleon Solo. He was badly beaten and bruised, and he was desperately sorry for what he knew must come next. He circled the room, making sure that contempt and hatred was painted across his face.

"What are your plans for him?" he demanded.

"We pulled his toe-nails off. You should have heard him yelling sir. But he hasn't said anything. Not yet, but he will."

Kuryakin shook his head.

"This man is UNCLE. They are trained to resist anything you might do. Torture, dismemberment or even death will not make him talk. Especially not this one. Do you think there isn't anything you can do to this one that hasn't been tried before?"

His companions seemed confused.

"You said Central has been looking for him for a long time."

"This one has been captured many times before, but he has always escaped or been rescued before Central were able to get their hands on him. He has been a thorn in the side of THRUSH for too long. I am going to take him with me to THRUSH Central where they have a very special reception prepared for him. You men will be rewarded for your good work here."

The men looked disappointed.

"You're going to take him away before we even get the chance to play with him again? I was looking forward to hearing him screaming again."

The large man, whom had apparently been the one guilty of ripping away Solo's toe-nails cracked his knuckles.

"This man is not nearly subdued enough yet sir and you know that as well as I do. If he is left as he is he will escape as soon you get him outside. As you say, these UNCLE types are incorrigible. Why don't you take the lead sir? We've heard that no officer from Central would dream of leaving an UNCLE agent un-tickled!"

Kuryakin regarded the UNCLE agent and nodded. This was the point of no return. If he refused now, he would immediately become suspect. He had no choice. If he was going to save this man's life, then he would have to take the leading part in administering the torture. He leered.

"I brought with me a straight-jacket trolley. Fetch it now and leave it outside the door until I am ready for it. I will perform this one myself. I am ready for a little bit of exercise and diversion. I have not had the chance to get in any practice for a while. This is the perfect opportunity."

The two men dashed eagerly away. Kuryakin strode to the door to his own men and nodded to them. They hurried off towards the surface after the others. Kuryakin was back at Solo's side in two large strides. From around his waist he was removing a coiled whip with one hand, and with the other he removed a tiny capsule from his pocket and pressed it into the prisoner's mouth, as he whispered to him urgently in his own gentle Russian accent.

"I have to make this look good and you have to make it sound good. I need to hurt you enough to draw blood. When they come back they need to hear you screaming. Hold this in your mouth but do not bite down until I give you the nod. It will render you unconscious for about twenty minutes. By the time you wake up I should have you out of here. Forgive me for the whip, but it is necessary. I will not hurt you any more than I can help."

Kuryakin saw the light of realization in the UNCLE agent's eyes, and with it a growing hope blazing brightly where it had clearly been badly faltering before. Illya pulled a small syringe from his pocket and quickly injected its contents into the prisoner's arm.

"This is just something to help with the pain I am about to inflict on you. Remember I will draw blood. You need to scream."

Solo started to scream.

Kuryakin found no difficulty in completing this scenario in the manner that he had planned. It went so smoothly in fact, that he kept asking himself where was the catch? Surely he could not have planned everything so perfectly that nothing at all went wrong? Something always went wrong! All the same, he felt something cold and icy clutch at his heart, as he found himself using his whip on the feet of the UNCLE agent, and hearing how the man screamed in real earnest.

Kuryakin's choice of starting on the feet was simple enough. Mr. Solo was already in a lot of pain in his feet because of what they had already inflicted, tearing off all his toenails and then forcibly stuffing them back into shoes and socks. The American's feet would be in pain and bandages for a few days anyway. He would be a lot more uncomfortable if he had to contend with agony in _both_ the feet _and_ in the back. This way, hopefully, he would be suffering with painful feet, but he would be able to lie down in comfort. Despite telling himself this however, Kuryakin was already questioning himself, asking himself if there couldn't possibly have been a better way? How could he justify deliberately, knowingly causing such agony to _any_ other human being, _let alone an UNCLE agent_? Better to cut this as short as possible. Solo was in agony for real, the tears in his eyes made that plain, but he had still not bitten down on the capsule Illya had given him. He clearly trusted him enough to follow his orders. He could see that through the haze of pain, Solo was watching him intently, waiting for the sign Kuryakin had promised him. He nodded slightly. Within three seconds, Solo's head lolled, his eyes closed. He was unconscious. With an effort, Kuryakin effected a leer.

"He's not as strong as I would have believed." He grabbed the hands of his companions and shook them hard.

"I congratulate you. You have been the first to weaken this man so quickly. Help me now to strap him on the trolley. By the time he wakes up he will be trussed up like a Christmas turkey and half way to THRUSH central. I will see that you men are brought to the attention of the central committee for the good work you have done here."

The two THRUSH thugs beamed, and willingly helped Illya to unstrap the unconscious Solo and transfer him to the trolley. The three of them then wheeled him through the corridors and finally up through a specially fitted lift-shaft to the surface where the chopper was already fired up and waiting to take off. Kuryakin shook hands once again with his unwitting assistants and with the help of the two section three men, Solo was fixed carefully to the specially designed underside of the chopper, where he would be more easily unloaded without the need of landing the bird. The three men climbed in and with a grin, Oshiro took off.

The truck was where they expected it to be, parked close up to a banked up snowdrift. The road was a very broad federal highway, with plenty of space to land the chopper if need be, and at this time of the morning, with little or no traffic. Transferring their injured colleague from the chopper to the back of the truck took no more than a couple of minutes, then the chopper was away over the snow-laden fields. In the back of the truck, Kuryakin and the section three agents whose help had been invaluable.

The two men Illya had sent back to the chopper, once the THRUSH men had eagerly grabbed the straight-jacket trolley and started wheeling it away, had given the nod to Oshiro whom had immediately contacted his partner Agent Aminov in the truck. Aminov had then put the second part of Kuryakin's plan into action. He sent his section three men out to surround the compound and set the explosives carefully as Kuryakin had explained, and set it for a thirty-minute timer.

They hastened to make their charge as comfortable as possible. Solo was removed from the trolley and transferred to a soft ambulance trolley, and covered with blankets.

They had been on the road for just about ten minutes when Oshiro buzzed through on the communicator. Kuryakin whipped out his communicator and opened it.

"Kuryakin."

"Sir, the explosives went off. A beautiful sight. Lit up the countryside for miles around. Destroyed half the forest too. Sorry about that, but the THRUSH satrap in well and truly blown away. Just a great hole in the ground filled with rubble."

"Thank you Oshiro. You can return to base now. Kuryakin out."

Kuryakin was relieved that the entire mission had been a success, but despite that, he found the ride back to headquarters uncomfortable to say the least. When the American awakened, he was clearly in a lot of pain, and also well aware that some of that pain was as a direct result of the actions of the young man in front of him. He was obviously very relieved to be safe, and also grateful, but Kuryakin could see anger and resentment there as well. He understood it; he did not blame the older man for it in the least. He felt considerable anger at himself for being unable to think of a better and more humane way to effect a rescue. He did what he could for Solo's comfort, until eventually he found himself forced to turn his back on those accusing dark eyes, and busy himself with contacting Tarasov instead to give him the news. Tarasov would at least be able to contact the chief of UNCLE New York, Alexander Waverly, and report that his best operative was safe and would be on his way home in a few days. Kuryakin hoped that one day perhaps Mr. Solo would be able to forgive him for the manner of his rescue. He was certain that he would never be able to forgive himself.

Once they reached headquarters, Napoleon Solo was welcomed personally by Wilhelm Tarasov, as he was taken down to the medical bay to have his injured feet treated. Kuryakin retreated to his office to take a breather and write his report while everything was still fresh in his mind.

It was just before midday, having just finished his report on Solo's rescue for Tarasov, and finished Molovitski's paperwork from the day before that he had not had time to complete before rushing off to Siberia, he collected his files of paperwork and left his office. He was approaching Tarasov's office when the chief's secretary came bumbling out of the office and collided with him.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry Mr. Kuryakin. I was coming to find you. Mr. Tarasov needs to see you."

"Good, I have his reports for him." Kuryakin replied shortly, picking up his files hurriedly and tidying them up again. Without looking at the girl, he knocked on the office door and entered. Tarasov was standing looking out of the office window. When he turned, Kuryakin could see that his face was pale.

"Mr. Kuryakin, that was fast."

"I was coming to bring you the section two files for yesterday sir, and my mission report from this morning."

"Ahh…good, good, thank you."

He did not take them, so Illya placed them down neatly on the table and waited. Clearly the chief had something on his mind.

"Er…sir, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes…yes…I suggest you sit down Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya frowned.

"Has something happened sir?"

"Yes…yes."

Tarasov ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, sat down, then stood up again and paced back to the window.

"Sir? You have something bad I presume? Bad news to impart sir?"

Finally, Tarasov sat down at the table and waited until Illya himself was seated, then he leaned forward, genuine sorrow in his eyes.

"Mr. Kuryakin… Illya… I need to tell you that the Ukraine police have been dragging the Danube for the last nine hours, after local people report hearing a disturbance during the night down by the riverside. The river has been partially frozen for two months as you probably know, but not completely. Two hours ago they pulled the bodies of a young woman and a three- year-old baby from the water. I am so sorry… they are the bodies of Elinor Kuryakina and Dimitri Illyich Kuryakin. They appear to have fallen or been thrown into the river. Because of the reports of screaming and shouting that were heard during the night, it is being treated as murder until they discover differently. I'm so sorry."

Elinor and baby Dimitri… he had lost them both. He and Elinor had fallen head over heels in love with one another years ago and married in the heat of their passion. The KGB in its infinite wisdom had objected strongly and demanded that the couple either divorce immediately, or they would force the issue by executing Elinor, and Illya too if he objected. Naturally enough, the decision had not been difficult to make, and they had not been permitted to see one another with any regularity. He had seen his son on only a handful of occasions, although he had, through the benevolent influence of Wilhelm Tarasov, been able to keep up a regular correspondence with his wife, as he still thought of her, and send her virtually his entire income every month. She just as lovingly kept in touch with him, and sent him updates and photos of his son as often as she was able. Illya had lived every day with the conviction that with the help of UNCLE, he would be able to do something about reuniting his family once and for all. Tarasov was the only one who had such close knowledge of Illya's private life, and Illya could see how much it had hurt the older man to have to pass on such tragic tidings. Illya nodded numbly and scrambled to his feet.

"Thank you for… sorry, I need to…" His voice broke and he made blindly for the door. Tarasov held it open for him and he fell through and returned to his office in a state of shock.

Inside his office, he closed the door and locked it from the inside and covered the glass window with a piece of thick dark felt. Blinking up at the single light bulb, he was assailed suddenly by a flood of memories, and half-forgotten dreams. His breath released in a loud sob that took him by surprise, and he dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands. Struggling for control he bit his tongue and made no sound, but was unable to quite prevent the violent shaking of his shoulders, or his hands, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

Kuryakin remained locked in his office until he was confident he was able to emerge without giving anything away to his friends and colleagues. When he did finally make his way back down to reception, his face had resumed its usual grim sternness, and no one who passed him in the corridor could possibly guess that his heart had broken into a million pieces.

What he wanted more than anything in the world was to be able to go home to his own private room and grieve in private. The problem was, the only place he had that was private was his office, but the walls were so thin the slightest sound reverberated through. His home was a two bedroomed flat that he shared with several other agents, and there was always at least two of them at home at any one time. The only private place was bed…provided he did not forget himself and start to weep aloud.

He made his way home, his steps getting faster and faster as he fought for control. He reached his apartment at last and fumbled in the lock with the key. Three of his flat-mates were at home, preparing to leave for work.

"Hi Illya. You're home early."

"Illya, did you remember to pick up the post on your way up?

"Illya, when you get a minute, can you…"

Illya paused, and looked round at them, and for a moment all he could see were visions of his son as he had seen him last, tottering along on fat baby legs, a big grin across his face clutching his new toy that his daddy had just given him; the old teddy bear that had been Illya's own, a gift from his babushka. He shook his head blindly.

"Sorry… I… I'm going to bed."

His friends backed off. Illya was never this emotional. They knew him well enough not to try to interfere or to ask questions. They nodded and watched as he disappeared into one of the bedrooms and closed the door quietly behind him.

Illya had no idea how long he had slept. He hadn't really slept very well. He had always been prone to nightmares, but now they were worse than ever. Nightmares about all the ways he had failed Elinor and Dimitri, nightmares too about the way his heart told him he had grossly mishandled the rescue of Napoleon Solo.

His flat-mates came and went around him, but he remained in bed, sleeping or pretending to sleep. They knew better than to touch him, but every so often one of them would call out to him and leave a mug of something hot to drink, or more often a small jug of vodka which for the most part he managed to rouse himself enough to drink down before succumbing once again to the numbing stupor.

Gradually, his sense of self started to return to him. He realized with a jolt that if he was going to sleep his life away, he might as well be dead beside his family. If he wanted them to live, he would have to live for them. Live for Dimitri Illyich. There was no one left alive who had really known the tot. Elinor's parents had died during the war the same as his own, and they had only had each other. Now, once again, Illya was alone. Fine. If that was the way it had to be he could learn to live with that, just as he had always had to. At least if he was alone, with no one to especially care about, he would have no one to break his heart for him again.

He made it back into work, and learned to his surprise that he had been away for slightly over forty-eight hours. Now he had more than two days of CEA paperwork and interviews to catch up on. Tarasov welcomed him back with a smile and a handshake, but nothing more. Illya was grateful. It was quite late on the third day when he finally finished his work and in preparing to return home for a well-earned rest, he realized to his chagrin that he had still not paid a call upon Mr. Solo, whom was still languishing in the sickbay. He ran into Tarasov on the way down to medical. Tarasov nodded genially.

"How are you doing Mr. Kuryakin?"

"I'm fine, sir. Have you been in to see Mr. Solo today? I haven't had chance since…I'm not sure how he is likely to react at seeing me. I don't want to cause him to have a relapse."

Tarasov smiled.

"He's still a little sore, but healing well. It's not like you to be… sorry Illya, that was insensitive. Shall I pop in and warn him in case he wants to send you packing?"

Illya half smiled, and the chief grinned and entered the medical room, leaving Illya outside in the corridor. A few moments later, he reappeared, and winking at Kuryakin, he left quietly. Kuryakin knocked and popped his head into the room.

Solo was sitting up in bed, his feet lightly bandaged, otherwise fully dressed. As far as Kuryakin was concerned, their conversation went a lot better than he had dared to hope. Solo had clearly been upset at having been tortured by a fellow UNCLE agent, not unreasonably, but Illya found that as they talked, Solo seemed to realize that Illya's repentance and regret was absolutely genuine; and further reflection seemed to have impressed on the American that there had been no safer alternatives open to his rescuers at the time. By the time Illya said goodbye and left, although it could not be said that they were friends, at least they seemed to have called a truce. That was the best result he could have hoped for at the time. By evening of the following day, Solo had been well enough to be conveyed back to New York, leaving his erstwhile rescuer to nurse his bruised and aching heart.

"…and that's how you two first met? I'm glad you got over the torture anyway Illya." April declared with feeling. "I mean, under the circumstances, there wasn't any other way you could have succeeded. In fact, I think it was amazing that you even managed to succeed at all."

She eyed her friend. Illya was looking at his fingers. She frowned suspiciously. "You _did_ get over it… didn't you? You _do_ know that it couldn't have been avoided?"

Still Illya remained silent on the matter and April realized the truth. Illya had never got over it, had never learned to forgive himself. Telling himself that it had been unavoidable had not helped. She could see that as far as Illya was concerned, it had been a betrayal on his part, regardless of the reasons for it, or the excuses given for it. He would never be able to forgive himself, which meant by extension that he would never ever be able to do enough for his friend. Illya felt that he owed Napoleon a debt that he could never repay. Tears started to her eyes. Perhaps the merest hint of light was beginning to dawn.

"Oh Illya, I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry about your family too. I had no idea. I can't imagine how I would have coped."

Illya flashed her a smile.

"Don't worry my friend, many people have lost much more."

April cast around for a slightly safer topic for the moment.

"So, how did you wind up coming to the States?"

Illya sat back again, thinking back.

Wilhelm Tarasov had been very fond of his young blond number three agent, but he had been unable to find anyone to partner the young man who was able to go the distance with him. Three partners had come and gone, and Tarasov was afraid that he would run out of agents altogether if he continued to assign partners for Kuryakin and then lose them in the field simply because they felt they had to keep trying to prove themselves somehow. No one in Moscow was experienced enough to be suitable, so the only alternative was to look elsewhere for a partner. If no one could be found anywhere else either, Kuryakin would have to be transferred out of section two. Tarasov badly did not want that to happen. In his opinion, Kuryakin was by far his best agent; certainly his most successful. Long before the Napoleon Solo Affair, as it had become known, he had started casting his nets worldwide for a suitable partnership candidate. Less than a month after Solo had returned home, Tarasov had received a telecom call from New York. Alexander Waverly had an excellent agent of great experience and long standing success who was also having difficulties keeping a partner. Without naming any names, the two men had discussed the qualities of their individual candidates, and agreed that it was definitely worth a try. Tarasov called Kuryakin into his office as the time when the snows outside were starting to shift and the beginning of spring finally starting to show itself.

"You sent for me sir."

"Yes. You are aware of our need to find you a suitable partner, and the likely consequences if our search proves fruitless."

"Yes sir." Kuryakin carefully kept his voice bland.

"Well, we think we have found the perfect candidate for you, but it will mean a big move for you, so the decision is yours and yours alone."

"Who is it, sir?"

"Well I cannot tell you that right now. I can tell you that he has been an agent for longer than you have and he has more experience than you. His successes in the field at least equal yours, and his string of lost partners far exceeds yours. Considering his skills and yours, you would appear to be the perfect match for each other. The catch is, it will involve a move to The United States. You will be working in the New York headquarters under the leadership of Alexander Waverly himself. Mr. Waverly is very eager to have you join his team. But you don't have to go, Illya. You can remain here in Moscow and transfer to another department. The science and research department is needing a chief. That is a role that I know would also suit you very well. The choice is yours."

Stay in Russia where everything was familiar, and everything reminded him of Elinor and Dimitri and all the things he had lost; or go the States and learn an entirely new culture, meet a new partner and remain in section two. It would be a new start, he thought to himself. It was, to use the western phrase, a no-brainer. He wanted to remain in section two. He wanted to remember his lost family, but on his own terms. He did not want to have the reminder of their deaths flashed in his face every time he left the building. He would go. He returned to Tarasov's office just one hour after asking for time to think it over, to tell the chief of his decision.

Illya Kuryakin still had no idea of his new partner. All he knew was that when he arrived in New York, he should wait in the lounge with his luggage and his partner would pick him up. His plane arrived twenty minutes early so he had plenty of time to sit and wonder and get nervous whilst waiting. It was in New York that Napoleon Solo was based; the very agent he had been guilty of torturing what? Five weeks ago now? How would _he_ react when he saw the identity of the new agent? Illya recalled that Solo had mentioned in passing that he was the CEA of the New York HQ, so he would be in a perfect position to make life uncomfortable for the Russian, if he was so inclined.

Out of the blue, a voice spoke and made him jump.

"Hi there… I don't suppose you've seen my _UNCLE_ anywhere have you?"

Illya dropped his magazine in a fluster and leapt to his feet. It was Napoleon Solo.

Against his expectations, Solo was grinning at him. Illya finally found his voice.

"It's you. Napoleon Solo."

"Illya Kuryakin."

The two men stared at each other for several, long, silent seconds, each aware that the other was thinking of the history they shared. Kuryakin flushed.

"Mr. Tarasov did not tell me… I mean I was told I could not continue without a partner, and there was a man in New York who also was in need of a partner, but no one told me…" Illya paused, uncertainly. Solo's reaction was not how he might have expected. He seemed…genial. Genuinely pleased to see him in fact. Surprised, but pleased.

"Was it your choice to come here Mr. Kuryakin, or were you not given any option?" Solo asked him. Illya replied honestly.

"I was given the option of turning down the transfer, but I would have had to leave section two."

"Tarasov told me you were by far his best operative."

Illya was surprised at that. He had been aware of Tarasov's respect, but nothing more.

"He did? The thing is I have had three partners, but none of them worked out. Two of them ended up dead through taking silly chances, the other couldn't take the pace and transferred to section three. Tarasov will not allow his section two agents out alone. In Russia at least, it is considered very unwise."

"So you agreed to leave your home and all of your friends to work in a foreign country with a bunch of potentially hostile strangers."

Illya nodded.

"I was told that Alexander Waverly asked for me specifically, and would not accept `no' for an answer. That is flattering… and it will be interesting to experience living and working in America."

"Even though the trade-off is having to be partnered with me?"

Illya head snapped up in shock. Why was Solo not showing any sign of anger or resentment?

"I thought that was my line? Mr. Solo, I really want to do a good job. You commented before about being able to make difficult choices. I think that that is what being a good section two agent is all about. Making good decisions in a split second, because you do not have time to stand and debate the ethics when you have a gun or a knife in your face. Wherever we are ordered to go and whatever we are ordered to do, I will always have your back." Illya caught and held Napoleon's brown eyes, willing him to see his sincerity. "I give you my word on that."

Solo smiled at him. A real smile. He reached out and gave Illya a friendly clap on the shoulder.

"You have my back already, my friend. You've saved me once already. You still haven't forgiven yourself for that have you?"

"No."

"Even though it was unavoidable?"

Kuryakin gave a muted, half-shrug, his expression sad. To him, unavoidable it might have been, but that didn't make it any less unforgiveable. Solo grabbed both the young man's shoulders.

"That is nature of our job, Illya. I admit I was angry at you for a while until I started to think clearly about the whole thing. I haven't forgiven you because there is nothing to forgive, you haven't done anything wrong. On the contrary, you got me out of a secure THRUSH stronghold in the middle of Russia. Without you I would be dead now. I just want you to make me one promise, my friend, if you want me to agree to being your partner."

At this point Illya was willing to promise him anything. Well…almost, anyway.

"Anything."

"Promise that you will always do whatever is necessary, however difficult it might be. Promise me you will never hold back, if it means saving my life. Never, ever hesitate. And never be kicking yourself about doing what has to be done."

"You are serious?"

"Never more so."

Illya considered that request and all that it meant. It meant that he might one day be forced to do the same thing again if the circumstances called for it, and Solo was asking him to promise to go through with it in order to save his life. Being an Enforcement agent involved making a lot of difficult, life and death decisions at times that did not come easily, or sit well on the conscience, but those decisions they lived with because they were for the common good. If he could do more good than bad, then maybe his conscience would learn to live with it a little easier? Finally, he nodded, smiling back.

"I promise, and you must make the same promise to me. Otherwise I will go back on the same plane."

Napoleon laughed.

"I promise."

The weather was cold, but not nearly as cold as Moscow. The streets were very crowded, but the people seemed more carefree than many back home, and the streets were crammed full of them. Illya was full of curiosity at this new world. He would have to go out and explore at his first opportunity. Right now, though, his new partner was taking him to meet his new boss. Illya was amused when Solo pulled up outside of a tailor's shop identical to the one back home. Napoleon entered the shop jauntily holding the door open for him.

"Morning Bill." Napoleon called, and introduced the two men smoothly.

"Bill, this is our new section two, all the way from Moscow, Illya Kuryakin. Illya, this is Bill Del Floria."

Kuryakin had to work hard to repress a smirk. Now he knew where the shop in Moscow had got its name from. There really _was_ a man named Del Floria! He shook the tailor's hand and followed his partner through the familiar dressing room, and into reception.

He was considerably startled to find that when the receptionist handed him his badge, it was emblazoned with the number two. A move to another country, and a promotion. All he needed to do was make sure that this partnership actually worked. If he had known before he left Russia that his new partner was in fact the man he had rescued from that satrap, he might have been less tempted to come. But Napoleon was not at all as he had expected. Even now he was reassuring him that the promotion to number two was no mistake, and he was chatting away about anything and everything as he led the way through the building to the chief's office.

Illya was a little jittery to meet Alexander Waverly, to tell the truth. His reputation had somehow led Illya to expect him to be a giant, kind of stern authoritarian or something similar, but he was a genial man in his mid to late sixties who puffed contentedly on a large briar pipe. There was a steeliness in his eyes that spoke volumes, but he had a kindly, grandfather-like exterior that made the steeliness somehow easier to take. He was very different from Tarasov.

The interview was brief and informal. Waverly welcomed Kuryakin warmly to New York, congratulated him on having saved Solo's life and completing a very difficult mission successfully, and then instructed him to accept a sum of money on his way out as a way of making his new apartment feel homelier.

Kuryakin took the envelope and peered inside and stared for a moment. It was stuffed full of fifty dollar notes. He put it in his inside pocket for safe keeping, and followed his new partner almost numbly as Napoleon showed him around and then took him to the office that they would share.

Their office was huge and luxurious. It was easily as big as the flat he had shared with several others back in Moscow. His name had already been added to the outside of the door, stating that he was section two, number two; leaving Illya in no doubt at all. There were two well situated desks, well supplied with the relevant equipment; a computer tucked into a wall cavity, a lounge area beneath the window, and even a fair-sized wardrobe where they could store spare clothing. Much better than the smallish cardboard box he had been given to use in Russia, that he had been forced to store in the well beneath his desk.

The sideboard even had a supply of drinks, including vodka. Illya dropped down on the sofa with a glass of vodka in his hand. This he thought, might be the start of a good thing. He looked up and found his new partner looking at him with a faintly troubled expression.

"Illya, I need to ask you something."

"What?"

Napoleon took a deep breath.

"Remember when I was in medical, in Moscow? I was there for three days before you came in to see me and you seemed reluctant to tell me why you hadn't come in to see me sooner?"

Illya studied the contents of his glass. He recalled Napoleon had asked him at the time why he had not been down to see him sooner, but the loss of Elinor and Dimitri were much too raw, he had found himself struck dumb, unable to reply, and so had said nothing. At the time, Solo had not pushed him.

"I remember."

"Will you tell me now? Please?"

"Why does it matter so much?"

"I don't know why… I just can't stop wondering about it. It was almost as if you were afraid to face me, but when you did come, I decided it couldn't possibly be that."

Illya half smiled at that.

"No, I wasn't afraid to face you."

Illya was not one to talk about personal things, but on this occasion he felt perhaps Napoleon did deserve some kind of an explanation. The problem was, even thinking about it was making Illya's stomach churn over and over, a lump form in his throat that did not seem to want to shift. He could try anyway…try to give him enough to explain his absence from medical for three days.

"I had…I had…"

"Yes?" Solo was clearly beginning to see that parting with personal information was definitely not an easy thing for his Russian partner.

"I had a personal problem."

"You mean having nightmares?"

"What? Nightmares?" Illya was momentarily floored. Solo nodded gently.

"Yes. You told me you had been having nightmares about… you know, about what happened when you rescued me."

"Oh, yes, but that's nothing unusual. I get nightmares very night. No, it's only that I received some bad news and it…" Illya's voice dried up. If only Solo could see how very difficult this was for him to talk about. Perhaps he did see, but he was looking so intently at him, he clearly still wanted an answer. Illya raised his glass and downed his vodka in one, then took a deep breath and tried again.

"I received news… the body of my ex-wife Elinor and my three-year-old son Dimitri were found floating in the Danube… murdered by someone… THRUSH…the KGB who knows?"

He paused, taking in the shocked expression on the American's handsome face and reached out and put his glass on the coffee table.

"It took me a couple of days to get over the initial shock, to try and get my head back on straight, and then I had a lot of CEA paperwork to catch up on…I'm sorry Napoleon, I was not deliberately avoiding you, whatever it looked like."

"I'm so sorry Illya. I had no idea! I shouldn't have asked…"

Illya smiled.

"Don't worry. We're partners, right? You can ask me anything you want."

"Really?"

"Really. If I don't want to answer your question, I'll be honest and say so, but you are welcome to ask."

Solo laughed.

"You're on. Come on. Where did you leave your luggage? Ah, right. Come on then, let's get you to your new apartment, so you can start to relax and sort yourself out."

Once they were out of the building, Kuryakin patted the bulge in his jacket that indicated the envelope of money he had been given.

"Napoleon, how long do I have to pay back all this money? I have never had so much."

"You don't have to pay it back, Illya. You have came all the way here to live and work, and all you probably have is clothing, right? The money is so you can buy whatever you think you need for your apartment, so you can relax and feel more at home…as it were. If you're happy and don't need anything for now, you can save the money until you find something you would like."

Kuryakin nodded uneasily. To him life had always been about obtaining the necessities of life. The Westernized way of living, obtaining all these luxurious extras had always been looked down upon back home. It was going to take him some time to get used to this rather carefree attitude to money and possessions. To one who had grown up the way Napoleon undoubtedly had, this was quite normal. But for a man such as Illya, the thought of one day having enough money to buy something you _wanted_ , rather than something you actually _needed_ ; to be able to eat as much and as often as he wanted and never feel hungry; to have the freedom to think and feel and speak as he liked without fear of reprisal; back home growing up, all of this would have been as realistic as that of chasing rainbows. And yet, here he was, seemingly surrounded by a metaphorical pot of gold. So did that mean he had found his rainbow? Time would tell.

His apartment was on the third floor of a tall apartment block, not too far away from headquarters, and pausing outside the door, Napoleon handed him a set of keys.

"The largest is the key to the door. The smallest is for the alarm system…it will be set by the way. You can choose to reset it for a password if you prefer that. It's all yours."

Illya unlocked the door, swiftly deactivated the alarm, then stepped inside his new apartment. He looked around.

A square hallway greeted him, with a coat rack, and small table with a telephone on it and a three-legged stool. Three doors led in different directions. The door to his left opened into a small but well equipped kitchen. Opening the cupboards and the refrigerator, he was surprised to find it already well stocked with provisions, including a bottle of vodka. So far so good, he thought, impressed.

The door to the right of the front door was a sitting room. It had a bookcase, a small sideboard, a two-seater sofa and one armchair, a small two-man dining table equipped with two chairs, and that was it.

The final door was a bedroom with a large double bed, and all the usual bedroom furniture. A door from the bedroom led to a bathroom.

"How many of us staying here?" Illya asked at last, unable to believe the level of luxury with which he had been presented. Napoleon smiled.

"Just you, Illya. That money is for the little touches. You know, t.v set perhaps, a radio or a record player, records or books, extra furniture, or carpet and curtains in a colour you prefer…There's no rush. I'll leave you to settle in. What say I came round later, about half past six? I'll bring dinner with me…"

Illya nodded, finally letting a grin spread across his face.

"Half past six. Thank you Napoleon. I'll see you then."

When his partner had gone, Illya looked round his new home once more, then crossed to the window and looked out across the city. Hundreds of vehicles crammed the streets, pedestrians filled the walkways and parks of the city, all carrying on their lives in blissful ignorance. Most of them knew nothing about THRUSH, and the havoc they were always causing in their efforts to achieve world domination. They lived in a world protected from much of the ugliness Illya had witnessed in his life. Would he rather be like them? Living a happy and relaxed life, completely unaware of the titanic struggles going on around him between the forces of good and evil, between THRUSH and UNCLE? Did he envy them?

He envied them their peace of mind and serenity, but not the ignorance. Despite all he had seen and suffered; between losing his parents and his brother and sisters to the Nazi horror; growing up in post-war Soviet Union; starvation, beatings, servitude to the KGB and beyond; and then losing his wife and son; through all of this he had UNCLE. Acceptance and a purpose, and a worthy goal to aim for. No, he did not consider that he was chasing a rainbow. All of those people down there were perhaps all chasing rainbows of their own making, but Illya Kuryakin? This may not be Moscow, or Kyiv where he had come from, but this was where he would work to make his dreams come true. Dreams of a world without the evils of THRUSH. This was now where he belonged. He looked around at his comfortable little apartment and nodded to himself. This was home.

April put her head on her friend's shoulder. It was a rare privilege for the Russian to reveal much of his past to anyone, but he clearly had been feeling very down of late. Now she thought she had a much clearer idea of what might be making him sad.

"So do you often miss Russia, Illya?"

"Sometimes, but what I have here is just as important to me as my memories of home. And I'm not talking about unlimited food, either!"

April laughed.

"The thought never even crossed my mind!"

There was a, long pause, then April said, almost reluctantly,

"Illya… how old would your son have been now, if he had not…"

"He would have been six years old…three days ago, actually."

That was it. That was why the poor man was feeling so down. Cursed with an eidetic memory, it was quite possible that his recollections of his loss were as clear to him today as it was the day it had happened.

"He would be proud I think, to see his daddy now." She paused as he started, and then linked her arm through his.

"I think your two hours are up. Shall we go back and pester that doctor again?"

Illya smiled. April always seemed to know what to say, and what not to say. He squeezed her arm with his elbow.

"Come on, let's go."


End file.
